


Field Day

by theclockiscomplete



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Humor, dunk tank, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 22:13:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4454360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclockiscomplete/pseuds/theclockiscomplete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the last day of school at Coal Hill, and the staff find themselves short a volunteer. Luckily, Clara knows a guy. Shenanigans ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Field Day

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation. Blame the prompts that circulate on tumblr and my incessant need to be doing something at work. For three weeks straight it was online puzzles, and now it is fic.

“You have an entire day to celebrate fields.” The Doctor’s voice belied the fact that he knew very well what a field day was, and was now only stalling the inevitable. His fingers over the round metal thing he was holding quickened their examination of its wires and sensors. Always that nervous energy, always that need to move and keep moving.

Clara ignored the obvious play for time and went straight to the point. “Professor Binns was supposed to be our dunk tank volunteer, but he’s got a nasty cold and we need someone to take his place.” She rested her chin on a hand and leaned over the arm of her own wingback chair, permanently scooted close enough to touch his. After a moment, she nudged his arm with a pointer finger.

“Sorry,” he said. “That Anderson fellow. With the bow tie. What about him?”

“He’s doing the Shakespearian insult booth.” She was getting impatient. “The kids like you, you know.”

“They like the TARDIS. And they liked Danny. Both of which I happened to be involved with at a crucial point in their timelines.” He waved his hand for emphasis and the thing in his hands burbled sadly.

She sighed. “They’ve been asking about you ever since Danny died,” she said. “A lot of them. Courtney wanted to know when we’d see you again.”

“And you think a...dunk tank is the best way?”

“Come on, Doctor. You’re great with them. It’s only for a couple hours.” She laid her head against his shoulder, watching his fingers untangling wires and reattaching them, feeling the muscle beneath his coat flex and relax. “And it’s the last field day before I come aboard full-time.”

He paused his ceaseless tinkering and looked down at her. “Now you’re playing dirty,” he said, but his voice was barely hiding a smile. He sighed. “So what, exactly, does a dunk tank entail?”

 

 

“Clara, it’s positively freezing out here,” the Doctor complained from his perch on the board.

She continued fiddling with the mechanism connecting said board to the trigger, a bulls-eye the size of a modest dinner plate. “It’s twenty-seven degrees,” she said mildly. “And I don’t want to hear anything from the idiot who dropped his sonic in an arctic pool and dove in after it. _Twice,”_ she added when he opened his mouth to protest. He folded his arms over his skinny, t-shirt-clad chest and grumped.

“You owe me, Clara Oswald.”

She finished assembling the latch and reached up through the gap to snap the waistband of his trunks. He scowled. “Here come the kids,” she said sweetly.

And come they did. The look on the Doctor’s face was reminiscent of that of a child who has just kicked over an ant bed and is too horrified to move his foot, but is also surrounded by his mates and is squelching down said horror in order to impress everyone. Yes, my foot is in an ant bed. Who cares? Not me. Nope.

Most of the children ignored the dunk tank, or regarded the strange man inside curiously before wandering off to the face-painting booth or the tug-o’-war station with the gym teacher. The children of Clara’s class, however, came straight for him, pointing and exclaiming loudly. “Step right up!” Clara called, brandishing three solid rubber balls.

“Miss Oswald, Miss Oswald! Can I go first? Please?” The Doctor glared at Bradley, whose hand was in the air and waving frantically.

 “Good on you, Bradley, that was very polite,” Clara said, tossing him a ball.

“Yesss.” Bradley ran up to the chalk line and spent a moment gauging the position in which he could put everything but his toes over the line and still be able to throw properly. There was a worringly large crowd of students at the insult booth, over whose laughter could be heard a steady stream of mild curses in flowery language. Bradley’s first ball missed the mark, and the Doctor chuckled as the boy clenched his fist in frustration.

“You can do better than that!” he said, skimming his toes over the water below. He was still very obviously uncomfortable out in the open with the least amount of clothes she’d seen this body wearing before, but his resignation was allowing for some kind of enjoyment, it seemed. Stiff upper lip, make the best of it and all that.

Bradley tried again, missed again. A few of his mates began jeering from behind, some from his class and some from others.

“Couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn!” one yelled.

“Bradley, Bradley, aims real badly!” cried another.

Courtney Woods rounded on the group of boys. “Oi! Shut up!”

Bradley’s face was bright red as he hefted the last ball and took aim. Clara saw the Doctor’s hand go discreetly into the pocket of his shorts, and then the boy hurled the ball as hard as he could. The ball flew straight and true; there was a clang and a splash, and cheers erupted from gathered students. Clara bent to retrieve the balls, and the Doctor’s head broke the surface of the water beside her.

“I wondered why you were so insistent on these particular balls,” she murmured, smiling.

The Doctor wiped the water out of his eyes and stood, shrugging nonchalantly. “They’re heavier. Metal cores. Allow for better aim. Simple physics, Clara. I’ll explain it better sometime. Whatever happened to teaching across the curriculum?” He settled back onto the board just as Clara, straightfaced, pressed the button with an open palm and smiled innocuously when he resurfaced, sputtering and glaring at her. The kids roared with laughter.

“My turn!” said Courtney. The Doctor groaned.

 

 

That evening (approximately), Clara and the Doctor sat side by side in the TARDIS garden, watching late afternoon light slanting through the assorted fauna and saturating their vision with warmth and color. The Doctor was back in his signature outfit, and very content to be once again protected by so many layers, and Clara was content in a pair of shorts and a blouse. She was lying on her back and looking up at the system of stars that was clearly visible even in daylight, owing to a perpetual divide between atmospheres. He’d tried explaining it once, until she complained that he was taking the magic out of it. She rolled over and propped herself up on an elbow. He glanced down at her.

“Yes?”

“Thanks for today.”

“Today would have come with or without me.”

She shoved his knee with her free hand. “You know what I meant. Thanks for working the dunk tank. And boosting Bradley and Courtney’s confidence.”

He smiled. “I had absolutely nothing to do with Courtney."

Clara blinked. “Oh.” He nodded. “That’s a bit scary.” She rested her head on his knee and curled up, ignoring the way he stiffened at the prospect of prolonged contact. After a long moment, he began to relax, and she smiled when a hesitant hand came to rest on her hair.

“They’ll be okay without you,” he said quietly.

She smiled. “They’ll be fantastic.”

She felt him hesitate, the hand stroking her hair pausing for a moment beside her ear. “Do you wish you were there to see it?”

She reached up and took his hand off of her head and intertwined their fingers. “I chose you,” she said. “Everything else is secondary. And you’re right—they’ll be just fine.” Above them, the sky melted from gold to brilliant orange and purple, the band of stars calling softly to their children below.


End file.
